


Ease

by turps



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for trickyfish day.</p><p>With thanks to Ephemera and Vaudevilles for beta reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ease

  
Lance learned to fight long before he ever joined Nsync. He didn't bloody his knuckles or have to hide dirt and scrapes and bruises from his parents; but he fought all the same. Through the hours of sitting with his friends as they mooned over pin ups, pretending that he felt the same. He learned that the hardest fights aren’t those against other people, but the ones you fight with yourself.

Fact is. At least fights against others gave you a chance.

~*~*~*~

The sky is hazy with brimming sunshine, black clouds streaked thin against the pink of dawn as Lance gets home. Opening the trunk he takes out his bag and slips it over his shoulder, tilting against the weight as he locks his car. Slipping the keys into his pocket, he pulls his hands into his sleeves, shivering as he walks. Lance doesn’t speak as he finds his house keys and unlocks his front door. He knows no one is there; it’s how he wanted it.

When the washer is whirring Lance walks the halls, coffee mug held in his hand. There’s a chair in one of the guest rooms. Over-stuffed and comfortable, it’s positioned next to the window, turned away from the perfection of the rest of the room. Lance settles into it, legs folded and feet tucked away. Outside the sun is rising steadily, making the shadows in his garden move, stretching across the grass as his coffee goes cold.

It takes his cell phone to make him move. It been ringing almost non-stop, and he’s taken care of every call. Statements and reassurances and all he wants is some time alone. It doesn’t stop ringing. Insistently. Lance is seconds from throwing it from the room.

He answers it instead, sighing when he sees the display.

“Chris.”

There’s no reply at first, just empty noise then a crash of sound. Blasting music and laughter and Lance’s fingers itch to end the call. He doesn’t want to deal with this, not now.

“Lance. Lance. Sorry, man. I’ll be there in a moment.” More empty sound, then Chris is breathing into the phone. “They want me for some pictures. I told them they’d have to wait.”

Lance takes a sip of his cold coffee, grimacing before taking another, longer drink. “You should go take your pictures.”

“No, man. Five minutes won’t hurt.”

Reaching down, Lance puts his mug on the floor. It’s bright outside now, and he rests his cheek against the back of the chair.

“So, he thought he could win the duel, and like, no way. I was using those light sabres the first time round. Course, we got snapped, I need to get used to that again, I was seconds from adjusting the junk last night, only remembered when the camera moved in. And hey, Bass. If I’m boring you here or something.”

“I’m tired.” Lance’s eyes are half shut. He hasn’t slept for days and he’s drifting, barely listening as Chris’ voice changes, lowering as he speaks.

“Yeah, you would be.” Silence then, and the phone is lax in Lance’ hand. “Go to sleep, I’ll call you later.”

Lance does.

~*~*~*~

Show business is all about keeping up appearances, and Lance is a master. He can face the cameras and pretend things are fine, and they are, in the hours when he’s working a room. Sealing deals, shaking hands, his friends at his side. Beautiful women pressing close for picture opportunities, their hair against his face, their lips and eyes glossy under the blinding flashes. Men look his way, and he reminds himself it’s okay to look, to touch. He does neither. It’s easier to be alone.

It’s dark when he gets home. Taking off his jacket, Lance drapes it across the sofa, kicks off his shoes and undoes his cuffs. The curtains are open and moonlight floods the room, stripping all the colour. He takes off his shirt, skin goose-bumps in the chill of the room.

His grandma calls this the witching hour, the dead time before dawn. Lance switches on his tv, letting it play to itself as he walks away. He should sleep, but doesn’t feel tired at all. Instead he wanders his house, moves a vase inches to the side, then five minutes later, puts it back in the same place.

His cell rings when he’s sorting out his clothes. Pulling it from his pocket he settles in a circle of shirts, worrying at a green sleeve as he looks at the display.

“Chris, hey.”

Lance isn’t surprised Chris has phoned, he’s just surprised it’s so soon. It’s only been days since his last call, and they don’t talk that often, not now. There was a time when it would have been impossible to imagine that weeks could go by without Lance talking with Chris, but that had been back before everything changed. Before Justin and Dani and this fight that Lance is losing day after day.

“We sung today and they gave us dancers, you should have seen them. I’m still scarred.”

“What’s the matter? Their chests too small?”

There’s a hesitation, and Lance can easily picture Chris’ glare.

“I should resent that remark. One picture. One! And I’m labelled for life, however, I’m the bigger man here and I’ll let it go.” Chris sighs. “It’s just. I’m not used to dancing with women.”

A shirt crumples in Lance’s hand. He tries to think what to say, runs through glib joking responses, but all he can think to say is, “me too.”

Chris hangs up seconds later. Lance clicks shut his phone, leaving the shirts as tiredness strikes and he climbs into bed.

~*~*~*~

The lifestyle of the idle rich is one Lance has adopted with ease. His people are running his business as he parties and spends time at home. It’s an easy lifestyle and Lance justifies it by thinking he’s worked hard all his life. Things have been difficult lately, he deserves a rest. Easy excuses for an easy existence, and Lance’s personal fight has changed yet again. It’s a fight he’s losing, but Lance can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s fought for so much, and lost it all.

It’s almost mid day when Lance wakes. Yawning, he climbs out of bed and heads downstairs. Minutes in the bathroom, then a moment to grab a beer from the fridge, and he’s sitting next to his pool. The water sparkles in the sunlight, wavering lines shining bright against the blue.

There’s a bottle opener on the tiles. Lance picks it up, and with a deft flick of his hand, takes the top off his beer, dropping the cap onto the ground.

The water is cold when he puts his feet in. Lance shivers and takes a deep drink. He runs the back of his hand across his mouth, over the rough pull of stubble.

“You know. You’re kind of pathetic like this.”

Lance looks at his feet, the way they wobble and elongate under the water. He doesn’t look at Chris at all.

“I didn’t ask you to come.” Lance takes another drink, deliberately keeping a distance when Chris sits by his side. It’s difficult, because it would be easy to get close, but Lance is too used to easy now. This pull he feels toward Chris means more, _Chris_ means more, someone solid in the blur that has become Lance’s life.

“True.” Chris is bending forward, pulling at his sneakers. He throws them to one side and they land with a thud. Lance keeps looking in the pool, watching as Chris’ legs appear next to his own, sturdy calves and small feet. Dark hair matting as Chris kicks at the water.

“I came anyway.”

Lance looks up then, watches as Chris looks back at him.

In the end it’s surprisingly easy to cross the distance, let himself slump against Chris’ side, the reassuring weight of Chris’ arm against his back.

Sitting close, Lance thinks, that maybe this is one fight he’s happy to lose.


End file.
